The Days That Are No More
by SilverRose208
Summary: After the destruction of the Normandy, Ashley must come to terms with accepting all that she has lost, and it isn't easy. MShep romance; Ashley POV. Title is allusion to Tennyson's Tears, Idle Tears.
1. Chapter 1

___Disclaimer - I'm not affiliated with BioWare, don't have any claim to the Mass Effect universe or its characters, and don't receive any compensation for writing this. Yadda, yadda, yadda.  
____

_2183 – 3 weeks after the destruction of the Normandy_

The book flew from her hands, powered by a pent-up range she hadn't previously been aware that she possessed. For a moment, she was jealous of its movement – strong, decisive, purposeful – as it careened across the surface of the desk in front of her. It impacted perfectly with a glass left there the night before and paused only a second before resuming its course, sailing through the flying shards to thud on the floor.

A brute laugh tore from her chest, burning her throat as it escaped her mouth. More messes to clean. More pieces to pick up. Once again, helpless to do anything but watch events unfold.

She studied the jagged edges of the ruined glass. It had been rendered a stub, dangerous and unusable, no longer fit to perform the duty for which it had been made. It would have to be discarded – but it was _so_ beautifully imperfect in its death. The fragments that littered the table caught the rainbow hues of early morn as they streamed through the small window above her, newly rough-hewn edges glimmering in silent, eulogistic dance. She idly wondered if others could observe such beauty in her imperfection, in the dangerous and unusable woman left after her own breakdown.

As her brown eyes surveyed the scene before her, Ashley Williams laughed once again, a sound made ugly by the pain and rancor fueling it. She, an Alliance marine, was sitting in the dark of early day, empathizing with and mourning, of all things, a broken glass.

Three weeks had passed since she'd seen Shepard hurtle through space, unable to do anything but watch the life slowly ebb from his body with each gasping breath. It had been celebrated as a hero's death; to Ashley, it was the epitome of futility. The man that had done the impossible had been brought to his end by an unknown enemy, ultimately to be killed by the very air and space he strove to protect. If he were to die that day, he deserved a better end than that. Shepard, in life, was strong, decisive and purposeful, compelled to greatness by force and circumstance outside of his control. Shepard, in death, had been seized by panic, limbs flailing in a violent struggle against an unseen and intangible foe.

She had been vocal in her desire to shoulder the blame for the death of the humanity's greatest man. Through the silent hours in the escape pod, she had effectively convinced herself that, had she ignored Shepard's order to leave, they both could have dragged Joker to safety. And, she was now positive that it was that this insistent self-flagellation that had earned her immediate and indefinite leave at Councilor Anderson's suggestion. Begrudgingly, she had left the Citadel for home to await the first of what would be several "general well-being follow-ups" with Alliance psychologists at the nearby base. She pursed her lips at the thought, noting that she had just over a week left until her first.

Ordering her to sit idle and grieve was, in Ashley's opinion, the least helpful thing she could have been ordered to do. She should have been carrying on Shepard's fight, doing her part to campaign against the Council's judgment that the Reapers were not real. Shepard deserved more than to be discredited in death by the people he'd been concerned with saving, to be plastered over Alliance recruitment centers as the posterboy of humanity, to be sold for endorsements for energy drinks, to be the subject of seemingly ceaseless news reports and features, to be smiling up at her from the cover of a Wheaties box.

Her body craved action, and the inability to satisfy it was adding to her current disturbance. Certainly, she recognized that Anderson believed he was acting in her best interest; she had not yet allowed herself the realization that Anderson knew, in her current state, she would get herself killed in her first engagement – or, worse, get those relying on her killed as well.

She needed no babysitter, no white-coated caretaker to tell her the depths of the discordant and conflicting emotions raging within her. She needed work to soothe idle hands, a purpose to distract that troubled mind. She had been denied anything but than to grieve.

Through it all, she had refused to cry; in truth, she was afraid. To mourn was to acknowledge that something needed mourning. Of things unfelt – of words unsaid!; naught but fuel for pyres of the dead.

Helplessness was not a feeling to which she was accustomed. It was her singular feeling now: helpless to save Shepard, helpless to fight back against Anderson's judgment, helpless to stop the destruction that she herself had set into motion by hurling a the book into a forgotten glass.

The first tears slowly fell as she shook her head, laughing at the idiocy of her situation. After everything – _everything!_ – that she had experienced in the past weeks, it was something as stupid and simple as breaking a damn glass that had spurred the first tears to fall.

She finally succumbed to what she had long denied, silent sobs tearing through her. It was all too much.

After a moment, breath catching in her throat, she stopped, unable and unwilling to cry anymore. Through bleary eyes, calloused fingertips set to work gently batting small fragments of glass into the center of the desk.

There, in the stillness of early morning, in the darkness before the dawn, Ashley learned that some pieces were easier to pick up than others.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer - I'm not affiliated with BioWare, don't have any claim to the Mass Effect universe or its characters, and don't receive any compensation for writing this. Yadda, yadda, yadda.  
_

_

* * *

__2183 – 5 weeks after the destruction of the Normandy_

She stood in the doorway, having just returned from the second session with the white coats. Ashley was in no mood for further conversation, further exploration of _feelings_ and _motivations_ and _cognitive dissonance_. Her mother read the expression on her daughter's tired face. Ashley had always been slender and lithe, but the past month had seen over ten pounds drop from her small frame. More than anyone else in Ashley's life, her mother had an intimate understanding of what had left her daughter a hollow shell of her former self. To the eye of a stranger, Ashley would appear haunted; only her mother recognized how true that was.

"Hi, sweetie! I was just in here to drop off the laundry," her mother said brightly, gesturing to the large basket she carried as if she needed to prove her reasons for being in Ashley's childhood room were real. She added, a brow inclining slightly, "I tried not to mettle or touch anything. I know you've always appreciated your space."

Ashley nodded quietly, recognizing her mother's act. Her mother always became overly chipper and energetic at each of her father's deployments, outwardly overcompensating for the sadness lingering within. Now, she gained new appreciation for pretense that had so grated her in youth, far preferring continuation of illusion over confrontation with reality. It was the job of a military wife to put on many fronts for the sake of the family; in some ways, it pained Ashley further to know the bright facade her mother now wore was of her doing.

Ashley stepped into the room, slowly reaching out to place a hand on her mother's shoulder. She allowed it to settle lightly, cursing inwardly. Ashley had never spared her feelings from the woman before her, valuing her level head, and respecting her sound advice. There were now no words she could find to express her thoughts, now no poets she could recall to use as crutch. Right now, this hand on her mother's shoulder, this small gesture, was the best that she could do.

"Thanks, mom. I ..." her voice trailed off as she shook her head, visibly frustrated. She wrinkled her nose in slight annoyance as she began again. "I _don't_ think I'm going to be leaving anytime soon, so ... no need to keep treating me like a visitor. You can mettle away. You'll find it sooner or later – there's a bottle of tequila hidden under the bed."

Mother took the cue and offered a light, oddly comforting chuckle.

"Ah, Sarah better not find that or else I'll ground you and dock your allowance. Come now, _only_ one?" she asked, lifting a hand to cover her daughter's, fingers wrapping around Ashley's palm, offering a soft, brief squeeze. The tequila had been intended as a distraction, but the true admission of Ashley's situation did not escape her. Ashley, on some levels, clearly wanted to share, but it was clearly just as difficult for her. Her mother would give her time. She moved her hand back to steady the basket she still carried as she shifted it to rest on one hip.

"Well, shall I fetch it?" Mother asked, her voice overly-innocent. "I take things didn't go well today?"

It was a statement couched as a question. Ashley smirked, thankful for the woman's bluntness, so very much like her own.

"No, they didn't," she admitted firmly, slowly removing the hand from her mother's shoulder. "Apparently, I'm 'retreating into a dark place to avoid confrontation with the issues that are pressing my current condition'. I was unaware I _had _a 'current condition,'" she paused, emphasizing the the phrase with air quotes, "Doctor White Coat must know more than I do – or, at least, he _thinks_ that he does." A sigh now, accented by an eye roll. "I'm gonna keep going – not like I have a choice or anything. Maybe by the time I'm done with him, I'll be as normal as _he_ is."

She wanted and needed to be alone with her thoughts, but her mother wouldn't want to leave her just yet. Ashley half-turned, eyes meeting her mother's for a brief moment before the older woman looked away. An unspoken shared bond of grief ran through them – mother's pain three years earlier mirrored in daughter now.

Her mother took a few quiet steps towards the door, shuffling the laundry basket from her hip as she walked. Her soft footfalls stopped as she glanced back over her shoulder. Ashley stood in the center of the room, now quietly staring out of the window. She looked tired, worn, sunken cheeks and eyes.

"You -" Mother faltered, breaking into a nervous smile. "I left your poetry book on the floor by the desk, but I cleaned up the glass that was near it. You can tell me if you break something; I won't make you pay to replace it, you know." Her mother gestured with her chin towards the object in the corner, the same forced smile still foolishly plastered across her face. "I know how much you treasure that book; I figured it was there for a reason."

"Thanks, mom," Ashley replied simply. Though present in the room, her mind was already far away.

Taking that as a cue, Mother shifted the basket to one hand and softly closed the door.

* * *

Ashley's feet moved automatically to the spot towards which her mother had gestured. The book of poems lay where she had left it nearly two weeks ago, dust of glass shimmering against the black cover like stars illuminating the night.

_I know how much you treasure that book_.

Her mother's words echoed through her mind, almost taunting her. From nearly a meter away, she could see the dark stains of water droplets decorating the book's edges, some pages showing the tell-tale signs of wrinkling from where water had been allowed to dry. She raised a brow, wondering if her mother's statement had been less innocent than it originally seemed: to see the volume now, one would not call it 'treasured'. Turning, she left the book where it sat, undisturbed.

She had little want of poetry now. Though always a crutch she could turn to in times of need, it no longer served her – not yet. Last time she had tried to read the volume, she had hurled her father's most cherished possession to its current resting place, seized and controlled by a rage she didn't know she needed to release. Thinking back to the moment now, she remembered the frustration recalled by works once treasured as cathartic. _Treasured _...

Poetry had too much sense to soothe the inner turmoil. Purposeful lines and punctuation seemed mocking: authors planned each phrase, arranging the syllables and sounds and similes in desired place – achieving perfection with pen and will, breathing life to paper with plan and design. She knew nothing of the sort. Faith was easily stripped when one disagreed with the path unfurled. It was not a grand design she wanted part of: was she fated to loss and misery, or had she willed it upon herself?

Initial anger gave way to despair. At first, it seemed that as if she fought hard enough, struggled fiercely enough against the chains of circumstance, that she could erase the words set forth on her page and rewrite reality. Five weeks into the struggle, she eased. No amount of impassioned protest could resurrect Shepard, even if she were fighting with God and not with herself.

She had delayed the grieving for too long.

Ashley sat on her bed, hugging her knees into her chest and resting her chin atop them. Where to begin?

That anger was the easiest to recognize. Ever fiber of Ashley's body twitched with fury at the indignity that had been served her – served _them_.

The mutual attraction between them had been palpable immediately, a fact that both acknowledged rather freely and suppressed to mutual frustration. She shifted now, laying her head on top of her knees, as if by performing the action she could see him. Tall and broad-shouldered (it was hard not to admire his build), dark brown hair worn close-cropped (practical and simple), a day's worth of stubble always darkening his square jaw and upper lip (she wondered how that was even possible – when _did_ he shave?). His voice had been a warm baritone, commanding and oddly soft in its gruffness, and guaranteed to send a happy shiver radiating down her spine.

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace_

No, no, not yet! No Tennyson, no Barrett Browning, no romantics, no abstractionists! She needed to find relief from within – not from reliance upon others. Bringing order to the chaos that ruled inside of her was alone for now her cross to bear.

_Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks  
Had I from old and young!  
Instead of the cross, the Albatross  
About my neck was hung._

She picked up her head, shaking it in the silence, as if the movement alone could sift the noise of turbulent and conflicting emotions searing through her. She loved and hated him at once, the words and works of others oft cherished rolling in frenetic bursts through her mind.

_Death be not proud, though some have called thee  
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so -_

John Donne.

_There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away  
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;_

Lord Byron, writing some 200 years later.

_Then leaf subsides to leaf,  
So Eden sank to grief.  
So dawn goes down to day,  
Nothing gold can stay._

Robert Frost. A weary smile escaped her – that had been one of her favorites as a girl. It was one of the first poems that she'd memorized, and she'd recited it at a school event to her father's delight.

The bursts came faster, furiously, now nothing but a cacophony of phrase.

… _Any less the black man who / Bit my pretty red heart in two ...  
_… _Kiss by kiss, I travel across your small infinity ...  
_… _And soonest our best men with thee doe goe …  
_… _Many waters cannot quench love, nor can rivers drown it ..._

Even in the moment of quiet, internal reflection, she needed other people to express what she felt. Unwilling to fight another battle she was destined to lose, Ashley pressed on in her reflections and acquiesced.

The months of wanting had crescendoed, the knot between them untying the night before Ilos, a desperate and deliberate denouement. The time, the emotion, the mutual affection and respect – one night is all they had been given, though they didn't know it then. It was a single, too-brief moment of union, their bodies and minds meeting as one. She sighed, wondering if that knowledge would have changed anything.

No. The night had been what they both needed, perfect in its time and space.

_How terrible and brief my desire was to you!  
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid._

_Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,  
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds._

_Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,  
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies._

_Oh the mad coupling of hope and force  
in which we merged and despaired._

_And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.  
And the word scarcely begun on the lips._

At the heart of her fury was the loss of her dream, the loss of the time that they deserved and that she had expected. She had allowed herself to take for granted their frequent shipboard conversations, their one night in which they were finally free to express themselves. The wait for it had been difficult to bear; the knowledge that it was her final opportunity was anguish.

They had, in the too few private and quiet moments in the Normandy's garage, discussed plans for the future, for when they might steal away and explore the infancy of their relationship. He promised her leave where they could explore together, nothing but man and woman, free to live and love. The thought helped carry her through the month after Saren's defeat when Shepard had been otherwise distracted.

_It seem'd no force could wake him from his place;  
But there came one, who with a kindred hand  
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low  
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.  
She was a Goddess of the infant world_

"Just think of the time we'll share in the future, Ash," he would whisper to her in moments of her weakness, his fingers always gently tucked under her chin, his thumb always lightly tracing the soft outline of her jaw. "We'll get there soon enough. I _know_ it."

Now the dream was dead.

_What happens to a dream deferred?_

_Does it dry up  
like a raisin in the sun?  
_…  
_Maybe it just sags  
like a heavy load._

_Or does it explode?_

Guilt. The White Coat had expected this, of course – she had been one of the last off of the Normandy, and Shepard had, by her own admission, all but shoved her into the escape pod himself – but survivor's guilt had been among the easiest things for her to accept and bear. It was an unfortunate fact of her chosen life, but it was a form of guilt with which she was already intimately familiar.

No, the guilt that seized her now was as strange as it was terrifying.

It had been nearly three years since her father had passed, though in many respects it felt as if a lifetime ago. The healing had not been easy, but it had begun quickly, the loss tempered by her familiarity with missing him.

Her head was in her hands now, fingers tightly twined through strands of dark hair.

It was _horrible _to admit, but there was no room for omissions now: the effect of Shepard's death was proving more profound than what she had experienced in losing her father.

_The sting of bees took away my father  
who walked in a swarming shroud of wing  
and scorned the tick of the falling weather._

_Lightning licked in a yellow lather  
but missed the mark with snaking fangs:  
the sting of bees took away my father._

Both Shepard and her father needed closed caskets: Shepard, because there was nothing to bury; Father, because of the multitude of weapons fire that had ripped apart his flesh. In the quiet before the funeral, Before her father's funeral, Ashley had crept to the dark solid oak, trembling fingers gripping the lip of wood separating lid from base. Swiftly, she lifted the top, needing to see his face. She was a soldier; she'd seen death before.

She had expected him to wear his pain, his features to have been arranged in quiet, stoic determination. Instead, she was met with a boyish grin. She tried – and failed – to remember a moment he'd looked happy, so fulfilled in life. The realization struck her as a blow to the gut: though he had loved his family greatly, though he had been proud of his daughters and wife, he loved his duty more. He had been Ahab, his own father's legacy his white whale. He had yearned for, craved, a hero's death, and it was the one that he had been granted. Father's death, he must have recognized as it befell him, was not a vain expression; it was part of a broader revision of chapters written a generation before him.

Let them call us cowards now.

_Theirs not to make reply,  
Theirs not to reason why,  
Theirs but to do and die:  
Into the valley of Death  
Rode the six hundred._

She had greatly admired the man and had lived in his example, almost to her own demise. In that moment and thereafter, she envied the peace and happiness her father had been able to achieve in his death, the work towards clearing the family legacy that his self-sacrifice had contributed. Had Shepard not shook her awake, she would have died with similar grin, a closed casket, flesh nothing but atomic dust on Virmire.

But that was no longer the death she desired. That was no longer the end that would soothe her being and set alight her heart. And, though there was no man inside the empty oak at Shepard's funeral, were she to lift the lid and peek, she was sure in that moment that he would not wear that smile.

_Twilight and evening bell,  
__And after that the dark!  
And may there be no sadness of farewell,  
When I embark;_

Father had left her the volume of poems. It, along with a career as a marine, was one of the few things they had shared in life. She often sat with him as a girl, hearing him softly recite the works contained within until she grew able to do the same. But the words had always been just words – silly, sappy stuff held dear by an old romantic.

After his passing, she had taken to reading them anew – simple phrases, already known to her, but obtaining new meaning. In Tennyson, she saw peeks into her father's mind, intimate glimpses of his very self could not vocalize to share. He had died in a heroic charge: he wanted to be a hero, like the light brigade. He had died bearing a smile: there was no sadness in his farewell. And, after his death, she would work _her_ works, not his – as Ulysses had wished of Telemachus.

She cried, but not at his death. The tears that fell were for her lack of understanding of what he had tried to share, and for the final comprehension that came too late. But it had been left for her, in trust that she would one day come to know. And she had.

The tears were quick to still.

She had not taken extra days of leave beyond those that were gifted for bereavement; she did not need them. A return to duty kept her mind and body busy, and distance from the family, distracted with mourning, made the healing come. What her mother and sisters could not appreciate, she clung to: in his moment death, Father was happier than in his life. He had accomplished what he had always most desired. She would read the works he loved in quiet celebration of his legacy.

_These to His Memory-since he held them dear,  
Perchance as finding there unconsciously  
Some image of himself-I dedicate,  
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears-  
These Idylls_

But Shepard had left her no such comfort, no such riddles to unwrap upon his passing. There was nothing for her to cling to or use to remember. She had her father's book to hold, his favorite chair to sit in, his favorite meal to eat – all tenable straws that she could grasp in moments of weakness. For all that she had known of Shepard the solider, there few little facts that she knew about Shepard as a man.

She agonized over the few things they'd shared, searching for some deeper meaning, some indication of who he was at his core.

He had recognized the poems that she recited – from school, from pleasure? He had seemed to enjoy her reciting _Ulysses_, and though he hadn't shared any poems of his own, made any declarations of taste, there was something in the way he watched her when she said those lines … It made sense for him to have the soul of poet. He was strong and passionate, caring – a listener, and a commander who'd genuinely wanted to get to know his crew. He was firm when he needed to be, but always gentle with her. He had helped her after Eden Prime, making her feel welcome and useful. He had allowed her to give him comfort as well when the Normandy had been locked down at the Citadel, and even on the night they'd spent together before Ilos. And he had asked a friend to perish on Virmire because, in his own words, he couldn't let her die.

In his frantic final moments, he had saved her from death again. His face had been almost completely obscured by his helmet, only his eyes barely visible through his visor. She had wanted to stay with him, but she couldn't ignore his order – and nor could she ignore the insistence and concern his voice carried. It was not the tone he used as Commander Shepard; it was the voice that belonged to Shepard, the man.

And neither could she ignore what flashed in eyes in the moment of heavy silence that followed. Though she had always known it, she hadn't fully processed it until this moment: Shepard had loved her as much as she had loved him.

And that was all she needed to know.

_One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield._

_..._

_Death closes all_

She sat upright, feet finding the floor beneath her.

Death closes nothing.

Ashley walked to the book of poems now, retrieving it from the floor with trembling hands, and opened to the first page.

_

* * *

_

_Note__: Poems referenced, in order of appearance -_  
Barrett Browning, How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43  
Shelley, Rime of the Ancient Mariner  
Donne, Sonnet 72 (Death Be Not Proud)  
Byron, Stanzas for Music  
Frost, Nothing Gold Can Stay  
Plath, Daddy  
Neruda, Carnal Apple  
Donne, Sonnet 72 – again  
Song of Solomon, 8:7, NIV translation  
Neruda, A Song of Despair  
Keats, Hyperion  
Hughes, A Dream Deferred  
Plath, Lament  
Tennyson, The Charge of the Light Brigade  
Tennyson, Crossing the Bar  
Tennyson, Idylls of the King (Dedication)  
Tennyson, Ulysses


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer - I'm not affiliated with BioWare, don't have any claim to the Mass Effect universe or its characters, and don't receive any compensation for writing this. Yadda, yadda, yadda._

_I'm also going to be taking some liberties in this and subsequent chapters in trying to fill the gap of why Ash was stationed on Horizon and reporting back to the Citadel – and I'm 100% confident that my liberties will not be close to cannon. Apologies in advance if I offend._

* * *

_2183 – 13 weeks after the destruction of the Normandy_

The old man laughed, ruddy cheeks growing redder with mirth. His bright green eyes twinkled with boyish mirth, as a gnarled and wrinkled hand was raised to cover his small, bearded mouth. His head was nearly completely bald, save for a crown of silver ringlets, a strange contrast to the wild, long silver strands growing from his face. Lines had been carved into his gentle, plump features by years of enjoying life, clustering around his forehead and mischievous eyes. Had he not worn the full beard, Ashley was certain his mouth would bear heavy lines as well. It was clear that he loved to laugh, and that he loved those who made him laugh even more so.

"You didn't!" he shrieked, great whoops of laughter escaping his lips as eyes shone with the first hints of tears. "What were you _thinking_, trying to arm wrestle a Krogan?"

She scoffed, stubborn chin jutting forward. "I held my own ... for the first five minutes. Of course, didn't take long _after _that for the grouchy, overgrown beetle to snap my arm." Ashley offered a wolfish grin, waving a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know," she drawled. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. And, through all that, I still miss Wrex. I guess that proves how crazy I am, huh?"

He laughed again, shaking his head. "I'm honestly surprised it took this long for you to get sent to me."

Despite her initial hesitations, Ashley found herself greatly enjoying White Coat Number Two's company. He was easy to talk to, and it was, admittedly, nice to have someone whose sole purpose was to listen and offer guidance without judgment. Age had brought him wisdom and a cool head, which she admired – but a sarcastic wit and sense of humor, so much like her own, made him a kindred spirit. When Ashley had refused to use his proper name, Dr. Carver, because it sounded like it should be the name of an evil villain in one of those awful old horror vids, he said that he'd allow it – as long as he could call her Princess. When he'd said he gave out sanity to the masses more freely than Santa Claus did gifts, she asked if she could sit on his lap just this once and whisper what gifts she wanted – and he'd invited her to sit on his lap and whisper to him anytime.

"Oh, you know you like me and my stories, Two!" she protested, a smirk settling on full lips. "What was that you said once – something about me 'bringing the joys of youth to an old man's soul?'"

He nodded quietly, his expression suddenly serious. "It's true, Princess. I _do_ like you, and I'm going to miss these visits greatly."

"Miss our visits?" she breathed, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Am I – Two, you are _not_ sending me back to One!" She had tried, and failed, to keep the alarm from her voice.

White Coat Number One was a tall and severe man, with handsomely-shaped features and an arrogance that made them ugly. Ashley couldn't be sure if she hated the man or his location more. In her two visits to White Coat Number One, she had been forced to walk the long hallways of an Alliance base hospital, to look into rows upon rows of rooms occupied by the wounded and dying. Her own reasons for being under a doctor's care had felt foolish and small by comparison: she had no lethal wounds, no missing limbs. As their eyes had met hers as she walked down the hallway, she could feel them laughing at her. _Here comes the brave marine who took down Saren, on her way to visit the shrinks because she lost her mind when her loverboy died!_ She couldn't hear any laughter, but she had been sure that it was there.

Ashley blanched at the thought of having to walk those hospital hallways again, anxiously chewing on her lower lip.

"Calm down, girl!" Two exclaimed, amused by her reaction. He added softly, "I wrote Anderson yesterday, Princess. You've made good progress, and I'm recommending you go back to active duty. He'll be contacting you soon."

She blinked, confusion showing plainly on her face. They'd only been meeting for eight weeks, three times each week; White Coat Number One had said it would take six months before any good doctor would judge her fit to return to duty.

"On your first day together, you told me you weren't a 'word person,'" Two continued, "and I'm not going to force you to sit here any more than I have to – I like you too much for that, Princess. Anderson wanted me to help you get your head back on straight, and I think you have. I know it isn't over, I know you haven't fully healed, but if you can sit here and laugh and tell me stories of the old days, I think you'll be just fine. And it isn't like I'll stop being here for you, like this is the last you'll see of me – no, our weekly little visits might be drawing to a close, but you're not rid of me yet."

Ashley's brow furrowed as she thought, conflicted. Her body craved action, a counter to the pervasive feeling of uselessness flowing through her. But she was still hesitant. The thirteen weeks had helped her reflect on the words and actions that had led to her sitting in the comfortable office across from Two today. It was still too much to think about how she'd almost ...

"If I sit here any longer, I'll go crazy – well, craz_ier_," she finally admitted. "But, Two, we've only been having sessions for two months. Do you think I'm ready? White Coat One said ..." She needed the reassurance; she was afraid of what she had become thirteen weeks ago, and she was further afraid that she still had the capacity to become it again.

"You have your family, me, Anderson, your faith, your poems," Two said gently, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. "You need to go back and forge your path again, and that's not something you can accomplish by sitting here. _All this rebirth in spring's festivity and spring's power bids us to rejoice; it shows us paths we know well, and in your springtime it is true and right to keep what is yours._"

Two's confidence in her _was _reassuring, but ...

Ashley suddenly offered a sharp and dismissive snort, shaking her head. "Two, you're reciting poetry. You made fun of me – _mercilessly! _– and now you're reciting poetry at me. How _very_ appropriate." Her tone was unamused and admonishing, though laughter shined in her eyes. Ashley looked thoughtful now, tilting her head slightly. "That isn't one that I know, though. It's pretty."

"It's not a poem, Princess," he chortled, chest puffing as he huffed. "Poetry is bland and two-dimensional – ah, but opera! Carmina Burana, Omnia sol temperat. No, don't look at me like that, Warrior Poetess; it was written in Latin – I just translated it for you. Yes, opera, my pretty Princess, is _real_ art."

She grinned. Two was _so_ very hard not to like, for all he was a white coat.

Something occured to her just then, as she thought back over what she had said before, and she pursed her lips. "Wait – Two, go back for a second. Why is _Anderson_ contacting me soon? Shouldn't the CO of whatever crappy ground-side post I've got this time be the one to call and check on the crazy new girl? And why would I see you again if you're releasing me to duty? And why would Anderson care if my head's on straight or not?" She paused, eyes narrowing slightly. It wasn't wise to make unfounded accusations of people, especially a person who was giving her what she most wanted at the moment, but her gut told her that he wasn't being completely forthright yet. "You're not telling me something," she accused, her tone challenging him to deny.

Two raised a brow.

She raised one of hers in reply.

He stroked his beard absently, lost in thought, and leaned back in his chair, looking a little embarrassed. "Oh. You ... caught that."

"Damn _straight_, I caught that." She leaned back in her own chair, folding her arms across her chest as she awaited an explanation.

"Listen, Princess," he began slowly, almost sheepishly, "Anderson was going to brief you on all of this, but, since you're _demanding_ it of me ... Your Skipper had some powerful friends – and they're your friends now. You can't really have believed that the Alliance would give over three months of leave to just anyone."

Brown eyes narrowed further. "Oh, what the _hell _are you trying to say, Two?" she demanded, a lump forming in her throat. Her mind ran furiously, sorting through events like fitting pieces into a puzzle. Something had felt oddly neat at the time, but she had dismissed it as yet another symptom of whatever had seized her.

He sighed, frowning. "Look, it's not some grand conspiracy, Princess."

Ashley's frowned, wishing he'd come right out and say what he was trying so inelegantly to dance around. "So, what does_ that_ mean? There's no secret order, no great chamber where everyone congregates on full moons, and no one wears hooded robes and chants to Satan or anything?"

Two grinned and nodded. "And no bat-signal that gets shined in the sky, and no matching rings or secret handshakes."

Though that oddly brought some comfort, Ashley remained still. She wasn't going to speak anymore just yet – this needed to be heard out.

He looked up at her again, and she was sure that the kindness showing in his eyes was very real. "Not everyone thinks that the Council's right," he said softly. "There's a group of us – we know what the real threat is, that the Reapers are coming. Anderson can't do anything because he's a politician now, I'm but an old man and doctor, and our – _your_ – friends in the military arm are all too senior to do much without drawing unwanted attention."

He stood and turned his back to her, spending silent minutes staring out of the broad picture window behind his desk. "But you! Princess, you fell into our laps like a gift from Heaven. Once we knew that we could use you, all the pieces fell together. It isn't coincidence that Anderson ordered you to come here for treatment and that the Alliance's Powers That Be were on board with our little sojourn. And luck had nothing to do with how quickly you got pulled from the care of White Coat One, as you call him. Once he cleared you ... Well, you haven't _really_ been on leave; us, meeting here, that was part of the agenda, I'm afraid – but my fondness for you is no less real. You're not going to another ground-side post – you'll be working directly with us, following leads that we can't follow-up with otherwise. You're the eyes and ears of our little group, and you're reporting directly to us now." He paused, musing almost to himself. "You're really just too perfect, Princess. If anyone were to question your motives – well, you were part of Shepard's crew, and your actions back on the Citadel certainly helped reinforce your dedication to him."

She winced at the mention of that moment, pushing the thoughts and memories from her mind. She was sure that she had expressly asked Two not to make mention of that day anymore. Even though his back was turned to her, he probably knew it elicited the desired response – and that exploitation of her trust was _really_ starting to piss her off. She inhaled sharply, grimacing, and counted to five in her head like Two had taught her how to do when provoked.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Wait –

A new thought came to mind unexpectedly: was this some kind of _test_?

Two turned now to face her, a bemused smirk crossing his lips. "Well done. See? I think you've answered your own question about your readiness, and I think my trust in you is well-placed. You're learning." He gave a brisk nod of approval, suddenly appearing very satisfied with himself. "Carrying on then – you're getting a bright, shiny new medal, a bright, shiny new rank, and a bright, shiny new apartment on the Citadel. Operations Chief Princess has a lovely ring to it, don't you think? Now, I know, it's a lot to process, and it probably even feels like a betrayal in some -"

"No, I get it." She cut him off and rose to her feet, her voice firm but flat. Two actually looked a little intimidated with her standing over him, she realized, as she took a step closer to her counselor, confidant, and now … what, employer?

"If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;  
If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim,  
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster  
And treat those two impostors just the same:  
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken  
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,  
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,  
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools...you'll be a Man, my son!"

She chuckled, shaking her head lightly, a smile crossing her lips. "Consider me the best 'man' for the job. I'll do it, no protests. It's _good _to have a purpose again."

Without another word, Ashley took slow, long strides towards the door, turning to look back at Two as she reached the frame. "That was Kipling, by the way. If."

He looked surprised, something she expected Two did not feel often.

Ashley blinked back tears as she stepped into the sunlight, lifting her face to feel the sun's warmth. A strange and sudden wave of happiness had washed over her at the revelation that it had all been part of a broader plan – _everything_. She had never been one to believe in coincidence: her faith conflicted too much with that. And, just weeks ago, as suddenly as her faith had left her, she had found it again in Two's office. In the span of minutes, she had been given a directive, a purpose, and a way to carry Shepard with her and make him proud – everything that she had been praying for.

She undertook the short walk from Two's office to her home, mulling through his words. She needed to go read her poems and think – about the days ahead, about the 'Circle of Friends' that had just been revealed to her, and about the man whose cause she had just been appointed to champion.

_

* * *

_

_2185 – 3 weeks before Horizon_

Ashley briskly strode across the Citadel Presidium, nervously running a hand down the front her of shirt to smooth the wrinkles out of her rarely used Alliance dress uniform.

Though she had spent nearly two years working for the Circle of Friends, following their leads and dutifully reporting all that she could learn on each scouting engagement, she had never been called into a full audience with the group. Hell, she didn't even know what they formally called themselves, if anything – 'Circle of Friends' had been a moniker she'd given them, and Two hadn't offered anything more concrete.

Anderson or Two generally took care of her assignments, acting as her handlers – her visits to Anderson were explained by the old camaraderie they shared and the small, comfortable apartment they had furnished her close-by on the Citadel; her visits to Two were explained, and protected, by his proximity to Ashley's family and doctor-patient confidentiality.

The Circle of Friends had kept her busy, and she liked it. Though she had no steady post or ship of her own, she had access to unlimited resources through her Friends, and she'd been able to move freely about the civilized galaxy without raising much suspicion. The civilians she'd encountered had been helpful but wary and resentful of her military status, though she'd far preferred those assignments to the ones that brought her into contact with Alliance personnel: no one liked a young NCO working on her own with a classified file and an air-tight excuse for being someplace she normally should never be.

As she walked, she searched for reasons that she would be called to an audience before the Circle of Friends now. As best she could tell, she'd done her work well, and Anderson and Two seemed to always be happy with her reports. Ashley had taken the duty seriously, seeing each completed mission as a way to honor Shepard's legacy. Though she lacked the man's rank, charm, and silver tongue, she strove to do as he would with each action or choice, especially when it came to dealing with aliens.

And she still prayed for him every night, as she'd started to do a few weeks after he'd passed – for his peace, for hers, and that her actions would do him justice and make him proud. He was with her constantly, in heart and mind, and she was certain that she could feel him watching over her.

Though it had been two years, she couldn't release him. The thought of Shepard standing with Kaidan, her father, and grandfather brought a smile to her lips; she was certain that the four men were looking out for her in death as they all had, in their own ways, in life.

Finding the Circle of Friends – or, rather, being found by them – had helped renew her faith, to see that each event of her life, no matter how tragic or confusing at the time, had brought her to this moment and this purpose. And, now, if her work with the Circle was done, she had faith that it was for a reason, and that another purpose would find her soon enough.

Ashley had become lost in her thoughts, and looked up now, finding herself standing outside of Anderson's open doorway. The human councilor stood with his back to her, staring out at the expanse of the Presidium Lake; in one hand, he clutched a data pad, his knuckles white from the tightness of his grasp. She stepped past the threshold, pausing to enter the code to close the door. At the soft swoosh of the it closing, Anderson turned, offering her a brusque nod. Still saying nothing, he motioned towards an empty chair by his desk, in which she sat, remaining silent herself.

She had known the news had to be big to warrant the risk of calling the entire Circle of Friends together for an audience, but she hadn't seen Anderson so nonplussed in years – not since he'd saluted Shepard's coffin at his funeral.

Anderson had moved to stand beside her now, fingers lightly tapping on a console on his desk. A mosaic of faces suddenly formed on the vid screen before her. Some were familiar: she immediately recognized Two, of course, and Admiral Hackett, from Shepard's funeral. She hadn't previous confirmation that Hackett was involved, but she had made an educated guess long before, and she was glad to see him there. Permitting herself a small smile, she offered both men a nod, which was returned by more than the pair for which it had been intended. She bit back a laugh. Of course she would be known to all of them – they were 'Friends,' after all. The rest of group were strangers, men and women of all ages and stations, some in civilian garb, some in Alliance blues, and some in white lab coats – but all human. She noted, with some interest, that all bore a similar confused expression, and that Anderson alone seemed to know the answers.

Anderson cleared his throat, still clinging to the data pad he had carried before.

"As you all are aware, entire human colonies in the Terminus Systems have disappeared. We've sent Chief Williams into the field to investigate possible Reaper involvement, but we have dismissed that, and other leads have been slim as to who is doing this and why." His voice was strong and commanding as he spoke, but the content of his speech sent Ashley's heart rising into her throat – _was_ this about her work after all? Had she missed some crucial piece of evidence linking the Reapers or those they indoctrinated to the attacks? "But we've come into possession of some concrete and disturbing intel. The Council intelligence network intercepted a transmission between two Cerberus cells, giving us reason to believe that they are behind this, and that a human colony on Horizon is the next to be attacked. The Council has determined that this is a matter for humanity alone – as it is now believed that we humans are attacking our own kind. Although it is outside of the scope of this group's usual tasks, I believe that it is now left to us to investigate this matter further."

He paused to let the news sink in, and lips began moving on the mosaic of faces before her. Debate ensued, but she couldn't bring herself to pay attention.

Ashley's brow furrowed, her mouth dry. _Cerberus_. She half-heard the people on the vid screen questioning Anderson. The name of the organization had been unfamiliar to many of the Circle – though Hackett had quickly set them straight – but it was a name that _she_ knew well. She'd seen enough of them back in her days on the Normandy, their twisted experiments, their attacks against Alliance soldiers. They had butchered Kahoku and his men, and she was sure they had orchestrated the events on Akuze, among countless other atrocities. But to attack entire colonies of civilians? She felt the anger rising within her, burning up from her stomach to flush her cheeks. It was unthinkable, _in_human – ironic, considering the terrorist group's stated objective to serve the interests of humanity.

"There's more," Anderson added quietly, waiting for the Circle to silence as he tapped the data pad against the palm of his hand. "The transmission also infers that Commander Shepard is alive, and that he is working with Cerberus."

It took several long moments for her to grasp the meaning of what had just been said. She replayed the sentence countless times in her mind, parsing out the important words: _Shepard_ ... A_live_ ... _Cerberus_.

No, no, not again!

It had taken two years to find true acceptance, to feel confident in the new role that had been given her, to seek out and treasure the scant bits of good and happiness that could possibly have been derived from the man's death.

Panic washed over her, her limbs tingling, ears roaring. Brown eyes stared blankly at a spot just below the vid screen, unable to move from there or focus. She was frozen, paralyzed by what Anderson had just spoken.

How could Anderson not have warned her first? Had he known, had he always suspected that Shepard might be _alive_? It was cruel to even _hear_ the possibility of Shepard's living now, so soon after she'd just comes to terms with his death, and it made her hate Cerberus even more.

Mortal creatures were not able to be resurrected, no matter what perverted technology or science Cerberus might have at its disposal. Though her world and thoughts were in upheaval, there was one thing of which she was entirely certain: _she had watched Shepard die_.

She took a deep breath, her hands balling into tight fists, as if she could fight against the words themselves.

Anderson had said 'infers.' Infers was not definite; infers was not concrete. She allowed herself to cling to that for now, hoping it would be enough to steel her through until the conference was dismissed.

Ashley looked up again, surprised to find the vid screen empty. The conference _was_ dismissed. She looked to her left now, meeting Anderson's eyes for long, silent seconds.

"I assume you missed the last part of that," he finally spoke, his voice very quiet. "We're sending you to Horizon tomorrow – Hackett is working on the cover story now, something about helping the colony with its defenses. If Cerberus is involved, it requires swiftness and a special touch – and sending you is better than putting a unit or garrison there. And Two wants to talk with you, of course." She nodded quietly, wishing he'd provide more detail on what she _wanted_ to know, some sort of answer about the other part of what he had said.

As if on cue, he sighed, bending to cover his face with his hands. "I'm just as confused as you are," he confessed softly, "and I don't know what else to say. I sent a message, to Shepard's old mail address. I -" He lifted his face, dragging his hands over his head with the movement. "I don't even know if it works anymore, but I didn't know how else to try to reach him. I told him, if he gets it, to come and see me. I can't tell you if he does – you'll probably already be on assignment – but I _have_ to know too. He was … And, as I know that you're aware, if he does come to see me, I can't tell him how to find you. I'm sorry."

She nodded quietly, willing away the tears that had been gathering at the corners of her eyes. There were few rules among those of the Circle of Friends; not contacting an operative in the field or revealing his or her location to outsiders was paramount among them.

This was not the time for confusion, for some emotional and visceral reaction. That could come later, behind closed doors, as she readied herself for deployment. She closed her eyes and counted to five, as Two had taught her.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

The swirling thoughts and emotions had made no action to still. In the past two years, the routine of counting had proved enough for her to be able to fight her way through serious injuries in firefights, manuver through encounters with dangerous and hostile information brokers, and help sweet-talk merchants that she had been utterly repulsed by.

She was a different person than that one that had collapsed after Shepard's death; an inference in an intercepted message would_ not _make her crumble now. But Two's trick was not helping.

Words, poems, rushed forth at her, as if some dam in her mind that had been keeping them at bay had crumbled. But, she recognized this, and knew her father had taught her tricks as well: he had taught her Ulysses.

_'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.  
Push off, and sitting well in order smite  
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds  
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths  
Of all the western stars, until I die._

"I understand," she began, glad to have somehow found her voice again, "but … Shepard knows all that I know about Cerberus – what they've done, what horrible things they are willing to do. I can't believe that he's working with them, and I won't even _touch_ him suddenly being alive." She sprang from her chair, compelled by the emotions that she struggled to control. "_I_ _know better_, Anderson. I _saw_ it. I _watched Shepard suffocate _in space." Ashley paused, looking away from him now, struggling to keep the emotions surpressed. Not here – not now – not yet. "But, Anderson, that's not the real issue. Could the Council's intelligence network have been breached? Is someone trying to draw us out from hiding? We've been very careful so far. This sort of thing, protecting colonies – it's outside of our normal scope of ops. Invoking Shepard is over-the-top, and it's designed to get some kind of reaction – maybe even supposed to get to _me_. I think we're walking into a trap."

She turned back to face him again, her jaw firmly clenched. Anderson's eyes were searching, thoughtful. "I'm impressed by the tactical appraisal, Ashley, and I agree with of all it. You'll need to be careful – I don't know what's waiting, but I'm fairly sure that something is." He leaned over, bracing himself against the tabletop in front of him. "Shepard rising from the dead, or playing possum and working with Cerberus this whole time … it isn't something I'd like to believe."

Ashley unconsciously ran her hands over her blouse, working to smooth wrinkles from her dress uniform. "Me neither."


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer - I'm not affiliated with BioWare, don't have any claim to the Mass Effect universe or its characters, and don't receive any compensation for writing this. Yadda, yadda, yadda._

_A/N - Thanks to all of the reviewers and the good folk of the BSN Ash thread for your kind words and encouragement. I'm still not 100% happy with this chapter - but, I blame BioWare for that ... Horizon is _really_ awful. So, a note first about how I'm treating it. Don't say that I'm skirting the issue - I'm not! We've all seen Horizon played out through Shepard's eyes, and I don't have any interest in retelling things we already know. What we don't know is what brings Ash to send the note ... and that is how I'm approaching Horizon. I've always wondered what her motivations were in sending it - I know a lot of people say that it wasn't enough - so I thought I'd use that as a jumping off point and include her reflections. __Also, sincere thanks to everyone who's read this__. I foresee only one or two chapters left in this series - and there will be a reunion ... just not yet.  
– E _

* * *

_2185 – 2 weeks after the meeting on Horizon_

"Sister dearest! I give you sincere apologies for interrupting your existential crisis!" Sarah stood perched in the doorway, long arms elegantly arranged in a dramatic flourish. She lowered them, now having received her older sister's full attention. "We've all been waiting downstairs for, like, ten minutes now."

Ashley's brown eyes widened. Oh, hell.

She looked down at the half-composed message on the data pad in her hands, and now vocalized the thought: "Oh, _hell_!"

Sarah, looking rather smug, nodded, the action sending a quiver through her mess of dark brown curls. "Yeah, Mom sent me up here to snap you out of it," she said plainly, stepping fully into the room. Sarah jerked the data pad out of Ashley's hold and put it down on the desk nearby. "Abby and Lynn are, like, thirty seconds away from leaving without you."

Ashley rubbed her forehead, peering up at Sarah through a cupped palm. "Yeah, you guys should just go on without me," she said quickly. "I've got some work – secret assignmenty stuff that I really can't say more about – to take care of today."

It was a plausible enough excuse. With Two still serving as a primary contact to the Circle of Friends, the Williams family had gotten used to Ashley's more frequent visits home for increasingly short lengths of time – and whenever she was there, she always seemed to have someplace to go and something else to attend to. Whatever the others thought of the eldest sister's new line of work, they remained blessedly silent.

"That's not work you're doing. _That's_ the love note to Shepard you've been agonizing over for the past couple days," Sarah retorted bluntly, folding her arms over her chest.

Ashley dropped her hand from her forehead to her side, anger searing through her. "Have you been reading my _private messages_?" she demanded hotly, stressing each syllable through clenched teeth. "There is top-level classified information in there, Sarah. You have _no idea_-"

Sarah rolled her eyes, sighing. "Relax, sis. You guys have all these code names – Two, Princess, Circle of Friends. It's gibberish." Sarah moved to sit next to Ashley on her bed, gently patting her sister on the knee. "Besides, the little love note is _far_ more interesting."

Ashley scowled, pursing her lips in thought. She may be an adult woman, a soldier, an operative for some of the most powerful people in Citadel space – but she was _not_ above putting something soft and squishy in her youngest sister's bed.

She forced a grin, giving Sarah a playful punch to the shoulder. "Now, why don't you just cover for me, okay? It'll give you a chance to work on your acting skills ..."

She studied Sarah now, hoping that her sister would take the bait. The youngest Williams appeared to mull things over for a moment, her head tilting in thought. Suddenly, she shrugged, patting her older sister on the knee once more. "Just ... leave him wanting more, you know? _Mystery_ and all that."

With a grin, Sarah stood and skipped out of the room, feet forming hollow thuds in the hallway as she made her way back to where the rest of the family waited. "She says to go on without her. Secret spy work stuff," Sarah called, loudly enough for Ashley to make out the words.

A grunt. "Figures." That was Abby.

Another grunt. "I _knew _it." Lynn.

"Well, we should be used to it by now, I guess." Her mother. She certainly did not enjoy disappointing them, but she knew she wouldn't be good company until she got this over with.

Ashley heard them leave and allowed herself to heave a sigh of relief.

She retrieved the data pad from where Sarah had put it, frowning lightly as she spent long minutes reading through what she had written. She had anticipated this being a very hard note to compose, but she'd also hoped Shepard would reach out to her before she had a chance to send something. He hadn't.

The ball was squarely in her court, and she wouldn't let it rest there.

Her data pad emitted a sharp beep, and she quickly navigated back to her personal inbox, her pulse throbbing in veins. Wouldn't it be ironic – Shepard to write to her, as she'd hoped he would, just as she was finishing the composition of her own letter?

She scanned through the messages, frowning. Nothing. Well, nothing but a note from Two.

_Darling Princess,_

_I just saw your family walk by without you. We'll speak tomorrow._

_As for the other matter, I'm not going to read and review your little missive to your Skipper. Really, I'm almost insulted that you thought I would!_

_As your friend, however, I will give you the following words of caution: he doesn't need to know everything unless he says he wants to know it; stick to the facts – emotion is too subjective and can be challenged easily; and only apologize for what needs apologizing – if I believe everything you've told me at face value (and I don't), he wasn't any better than you were. _

_This is not a watershed moment in your life, nor are you crossing any Rubicons. You've said your piece, and you now wish you hadn't said some (or most) of it. Do what you can, wipe your hands clean, and get over it. There's nothing more that can be done on your end. No obsessing – white coat's orders._

_We need you again, Princess, and ...  
the fate ...  
of the entire galaxy ...  
depends only ...  
ON YOU!_

_XOXO,  
Two_

She rolled her eyes and switched back to the view of her letter. Two _could_ be an obnoxious ass when he wanted to be – but he had given her some good things to consider, and, certainly not for the first time, she was begrudingly thankful for the man's friendship.

"Shepard," she began, tracing along the lines of her text with a finger as she read aloud. "I'm sorry for what I said back on Horizon."

It was the best opener she could muster, and she might as well get the apology out of the way first. She ran through Two's mental checklist: it didn't say too much, it was factual, and she really _was _sorry. Of course, as Two had reminded her, Shepard's own actions hadn't been any better, but she was willing to be the one to reach out: she never been completely able to let him go in death, and she certainly couldn't stand by and watch him turn away now that he was alive.

She continued, "When I lost you two years ago, it tore me up. I prayed for you every day, read a lot of Tennyson, thinking about you, just like I did when my dad passed. And then you came back, and it was like my prayers were answered. But I'm not who I was then, and neither are you."

It was all _true_, just abridged. She wouldn't go into her crisis of faith, her time with Two, her work with the Circle of Friends – not yet, and certainly not in this venue. After what happened between them in that last meeting … If he wanted to know more, she'd have time to explain, and hopefully face-to-face; if he didn't, it was better that he not know to begin with.

She wouldn't try to justify herself, try to excuse what she had said – but he had to hear _some_ of it. Though she doubted it the case, if Shepard had thought that the years had been easy, that she had been unaffected by his passing, he _needed_ to know how very untrue that was. The time and the experience had changed her, more profoundly than she could express, and in ways that she was still just now beginning to sense and understand.

"I don't know what's true anymore. Part of me can't believe it's really you."

How had Sarah put it – an existential crisis? Her sister had said the phrase in jest, but the reality behind it was not far from truth.

For three weeks on Horizon, she had clung to one word: _infers_. But there was nothing inferred about the man that had confronted her.

He was as she remembered him: tall and broad-shouldered, dark brown hair worn close-cropped, a day's worth of stubble darkening his square jaw and upper lip. His voice was still that warm baritone, commanding and oddly soft in its gruffness, and she hated herself in that moment when he first spoke and it sent the same happy shiver radiating down her spine.

A whirl of emotion, long since denied but never forgotten, had seized her: relief, happiness, anger – at him, for leading her to suffer for so long, and at herself. It had taken time, but she had found comfort in the thought that Shepard watched out for her, guided her. But seeing him in the flesh … she crumbled. There had been no counting trick, no poem that could help her in that moment.

She had needed to feel him, to know that he was real and not some apparition of a traumatized mind. And he _was_ real. He had felt sturdy in her arms, tasted salty as she let her face find the familiar nook of his neck – and he even smelled like Shepard, like sandalwood mixed with the smell of combat, of the stale, cloying sweetness of his sweat tinged with the acridity of smoke.

As she held him there, her mind had raced. She had been conflicted, emotional, confused; he had not. In that moment of embrace, a realization had struck her that sent her reeling: he had _known _that she would be there. It was the first skirmish of a losing battle that she forged with rationality.

In her anger and confusion, she had attacked him. It was too easy to succumb to the rage and hurt that ripped through her, desperately and unconsciously trying to provoke some sort of reaction from him. Was he human anymore? He glowed through cracks in his flesh with a fire that burned within, but the fire was not passion, not emotion – it was something else and something _horrible_. She had told him that she loved him, almost told him what she had done; he tried to recruit her to his team. _Just like the old days_ … It was nothing but a hollow temptation: anger had already fortified her against him. How dare they think – how dare _he_ believe – that all she had once felt and reluctantly still did would cause her to leave the Circle behind, to forsake two years of work seeking out the Reapers in order to join those who were very well possibly partnering with them.

Ashley had never been a fan of Shakespeare, finding the man's works largely too melodramatic for her taste. But, as she walked away from Shepard, her body still trembling and her mind still reeling, melodrama was the sentiment of the moment.

_O serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face!_  
_Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?_  
_Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!_  
_Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!_  
_Despised substance of divinest show!_  
_Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st-_  
_A damned saint, an honourable villain!_  
_O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell_  
_When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend_  
_In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?_  
_Was ever book containing such vile matter_  
_So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell_  
_In such a gorgeous palace!_

Shepard had been a Council Spectre in his life; then, he had seemed a specter of his former self. She wondered what strange and disturbing things had been done to him, what vestiges remained of the man that she had allowed herself to love.

There was only one way to find out now.

"I keep going back to that night before Ilos, our night … I haven't let myself think about those memories for more than a year now."

Ashley paused, chewing on her bottom lip. She had long debated whether to include that, whether to remind him of the single night they'd shared, whether she should put so much of herself out there without knowing where she stood with him. Two's note would seem to indicate that she should delete it, but … wasn't the whole point of this to let him how know she felt, despite the things she'd permitted herself to say? The events of the night before Ilos had been running rampant through her mind in the days since that brief and solitary hug. As he had last time they'd touched, Shepard had again reawakened feelings in her that she had buried.

Ashley had once made him feel uncertain of where he stood with her, made him feel uncertain about how far he'd be willing to go to be with her – and he'd always been open and honest with her, giving her the time and evidence that she needed to reach conclusions of her own. It was only fair, she mused, to do the same for him now. The words stayed.

"I wouldn't have expected you to work for Cerberus, but I know why they sent you to Horizon. I saw how many people were lost there, and if anyone can stop the Collectors, you can. I can't go where you're going, but I can wish you luck."

Reasonable, understanding – not the most elegant thing in the world, but not _bad_ either. She had to mention something about Cerberus after what she'd said to him, and make some acknowledgment that the Collectors had been the real threat. She hadn't entirely meant to imply that he was a _traitor _… but there was a lot about that conversation that she hadn't entirely meant to imply or say outright.

It had, after all, seemed a perfectly appropriate conclusion to reach at the time.

As each day had passed without event on Horizon, it became easier to believe that the intercepted intel had been designed not to put her there but to distract the Circle of Friends from their larger purpose. That very morning, she had sent a quick note to Hackett using a prearranged code phrase – "I have some unconventional ideas about how to get the targeting system operational. Should I proceed?" The colonists were good, normal, hard-working people, struggling to make a better life for themselves, and they resented her presence almost as much as she had resented being there any longer than necessary. There was nothing to indicate that the intel had been accurate, and her instincts told her that nothing would happen, that it had all been a ruse.

Hackett's response had been almost immediate: "Negative." Still, the Circle believed that something would happen – and so it had.

As the sky had darkened, as the hordes of insects had descended upon them, she was shaken by how wrong her instincts had been.

Ashley had been caught in stasis, forced to watch as the good people she had come to know were dragged away, unable to defend themselves against an unknown enemy, and she unable to help defend those she had been tasked to protect. As she had been so many other times in those interim years, she was rendered inert – helpless to do anything but watch events unfold. Like glass thrust forth into white-hot flame, she shattered; paralysis prevented the tears of frustration from falling, but they had collected within her.

She was a soldier, dressed in armor, still brandishing her weapon as if it could be used to do anything. A simple tactical appraisal would suggest she posed the greatest threat, should be the first to be neutralized – and yet the strange creatures only moved her once, choosing instead to grab those around her to load onto their ship. It was as if they had known her, had been told that she was not to be touched – and seeing Shepard, it had all made sense to her then. Cerberus had breached the Circle's intelligence network, and Cerberus must have sent these aliens to Horizon, and Cerberus had sent _that_ man to confront her.

They – _he – _knew the work that she had spent two years doing, the mission of the Circle of Friends, the things that she'd accomplished in Shepard's name, as she blindly believed that she acted as his champion. For him to say that only Cerberus believed in the Reaper threat and that they were the only ones acting to prevent it ... It was too much to bear.

She did not believe in coincidence: her being spared, Shepard being on Horizon and plainly expecting to see her, she had been _so_ certain it was all part of an orchestrated plan whose broader implications had not yet been revealed to her.

But regret began to override upon reporting back to the Citadel. Anderson had listened patiently to her rant before gently interrupting her with information of his own: whatever Cerberus had planned, whatever Cerberus had done, Anderson was confident that Shepard was not involved. The Council had restored Shepard his Spectre status, and intel revelead that Shepard was planning to go through the Omega-4 Relay, to assault the Collectors at their base and neutralize the threat. And Shepard _had _asked about where she was before they met on Horizon. And Shepard had also returned to the Citadel _after _to confront Anderson anew. The SR-2 was faster than the transport ship she had taken; it had come and gone before she'd even had a chance to know.

_O, I am Fortune's fool!_

It was the admission of ignorance she need, the reassurance of his humanity she craved, the very gesture she had been so clumsily trying to evoke with her actions then – though still not a direct one. But Shepard was so much like her: direct gestures were not easy things for people like them to make. Another reason, Ashley thought bitterly, for him to appreciate her actions now.

She now stared at the blinking cursor on the data pad, fingers drumming lightly on her thigh. There was a lot more that she wanted to tell him, but Two's advice still rang through her head. He knew that she wasn't a 'word person' – and, if he'd already decided where he stood with her, there was nothing this note could do. But she couldn't allow herself to think like that, to think like she didn't still have a chance …

Ashley closed her eyes, forcing herself to think back to her time on Horizon, for anything else that she might be forgetting to address.

Something else found her instead – a 'love song' of another kind.

_And would it have been worth it, after all,  
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,  
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,  
Would it have been worth while,  
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,  
To have squeezed the universe into a ball  
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,  
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,  
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—  
If one, settling a pillow by her head,  
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.  
That is not it, at all." _

To say Horizon had not gone well would be an understatement. But there was little sense in agonizing over things that she could not change. If Ashley had learned anything from her time with Two, from her work with the Circle of Friends, from the memories she'd replayed constantly in the years without Shepard, it was that.

"Just stay alive out there, Shepard. I don't know what the future holds, but I can't lose you a second time." She spoke aloud as she typed, pausing to read the words back. In her darkest moments, she had begged for one last chance to see him, one last chance to express all that had been left unsaid, all that she was _burning _to say ... and when given the opportunity, she had squandered it. She had trusted that somehow he always knew, but now ... He _couldn't_ leave her now — not again — not like this.

But no, something about that wasn't right. If she was to spare no feelings, this was not the time to be coy. She struck his name from the first sentence, replacing it with the nickname she had given him so long ago: Skipper.

"Just stay alive out there, Skipper…"

She suspected that using that name said more than the rest of her note.

Ashley signed the bottom, unsure of what she should write other than her name, or what else she could use to close. Close …

Grinning, she typed the final words into the data pad and clicked the 'send' button. She stood and stretched, inhaling deeply. She felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted from her chest, as if an albatross had been removed from about her neck.

She would not permit herself to wait breathlessly for a reply; she would press on, as she had always done.

_Death closes all: but something ere the end,  
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,  
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods._

* * *

_Works referenced:  
_Bioware, Ash's letter  
Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet  
Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock  
Tennyson, Ulysses (through Ash's letter)


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer - I'm not affiliated with BioWare, don't have any claim to the Mass Effect universe or its characters, and don't receive any compensation for writing this. Yadda, yadda, yadda._

_A/N: And thus concludes my little fic. Thank you – a thousand times thank you! – to the readers and reviewers and, again, to the good people of BSN for humoring me and my meta-timeline questions. I don't deserve half of what _certain _commenters have said, but I hope this final installment does not disappoint._

* * *

_2185 – 3 months after Horizon_

Every nerve in Ashley's body hummed.

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she fumbled in the darkness for the beeping data pad that rested on her desk and had so insistently roused her from sleep. Though she logically knew it wouldn't be the message she'd been waiting for – some fashion of reply to the note sent so long ago – she couldn't prevent the anticipation and anxiety from creeping through her, a strange and unhappy tingling spreading from fingertips to toes. She had promised herself she would not wait breathlessly for a reply; and though she had not _waited_, body and will were often times two things divorced. She could not temper her physical reaction – even as each day passed.

She forced open tired eyes and scanned her inbox, frowning lightly as she released the breath that she was only mildly aware that she had been holding. Nothing. Well, nothing but a note from Two.

_Darling Princess,_

_I bring you wishes of a joyous morning! Observe, I wrote you a poem: _

_Is this the face that launch'd a transport ship,  
And rode with me to see the topless towers of Ilium?  
Sweet Princess, make with me immortal memories,  
All is dross that is not viewed with the Warrior Poetess.  
O, thou art fairer and more intimidating than the evening air  
Clad in the beauty and gunmetal of a thousand stars;  
And none but thou shall be my traveling companion!_

_We leave for Illium in two hours. I think a change of scenery will do you some good. Don't try to pretend you didn't get this – I know you did. I'll be waiting for you._

_XOXO,  
Two_

Scowling, she flipped the switch of the shutter control, allowing the dim, rainbow-hued light of early morn to illuminate her room. She grabbed her pack from where it rest in the corner and began gathering the things that she needed; muscle memory and a familiar routine took care of the work, while her mind began to wander.

Two weeks ago, Liara had asked to arrange a meeting at her office on Illium – certainly not the first time that had occurred since Ashley began working with the Circle of Friends, but a request usually only reserved for very interesting intel. She had expected the information to be interesting, but what she had received was nothing short of incredible: irrefutable evidence of the Reaper existence and that the Collectors had been allied with them.

Though she guessed the information's true origin lay not with Liara but with someone else, suspicions certainly reinforced by Liara's refusal to receive compensation for the intelligence, Ashley had said nothing of it to the Circle, and neither had Two or Anderson of it to her. Shepard had still not responded to her letter, but she believed that he had sent something else to her: undeniable, concrete proof. To the soldier who had spent over two years leaving no stone unturned, no rumor uninvestigated in a quest for such evidence, it was a wonderful gesture – but it did nothing to satisfy the needs and wants of the woman who still, despite her best efforts otherwise, held out hope for a proper reply.

The weeks had been busy. The new intel confirmed through other channels, the Circle had sprung into action. Two had been formally partnered with Ashley – with Reaper involvement undeniable, it made sense to have an expert on psychology involved in any future missions: Two would be able to discern the taint of indoctrination.

Ashley enjoyed the reversal in roles as mentee became mentor. Two was a quick study, surprisingly receptive to the brief field training that Ashley had provided. Though the man was old and stocky, he was nimble and quick-witted. They made a good team, working easily together, often moving in sync without the need for verbal communication or hand signals. She was nervous about the implications of bringing the old man into the field, but her excitement at having once again gained a team member who understood her and truly knew her overrode any initial hesitations. It was hard not to draw a parallel between Two and another man with whom she had once worked, but body and will were not as divorced on that front.

Ashley paused to leave a quick note for her family – informing them of the white coat's ordered "vacation" time – and found Two standing in the small road outside of the family's home, arms crossed over his broad chest, a pack similar to hers slung over one shoulder.

"You butchered Marlowe," she grumbled with a grin, stopping to give him a one-armed hug about his free shoulder.

Two scowled in mock-irritation, his green eyes twinkling. "And here I thought we'd have a nice trip. But, _no_! Already she starts in with the accusations of plagiarism!"

She looped her free arm through his, carefully picking her way down the path that led to the colony's port. Normally, she had to threaten Two with a muzzle to stop his unsolicited advice from flowing forth; now, he was being unseasonably quiet. She glanced over at him, trying to hide the concern from her eyes. Was the old man nervous about heading into the field? "So, what's the cover story, the mission?" she asked breezily, hoping that some idle chatter might help him through whatever was so plainly troubling him.

"I don't know," he replied with painful honesty, his voice unnaturally tight.

She frowned, patting him on the arm. "You're nervous," she accused bluntly.

"No," Two replied, drawing a sharp breath, "it's not _that_. I'm uneasy. Usually Anderson is fairly forthright, but he's hiding something – and I learned long ago to never trust a politician who's hiding something. He said we'd pick up more information from the ship we're meeting in Illium."

She raised a brow, tilting her head to stare down her nose at the small man. "So, we're working with someone – someone with a _ship_? That's new."

Two nodded vacantly, his mind engaged by the puzzle that Anderson had left for him. "You've heard the buzzing from the Circle, I trust. Do you think it's your knight in shining armor?"

She blinked, caught off-guard by the veiled reference to Shepard. Recovering, Ashley snorted, shaking her head lightly. "Anderson can be an evil man, but I don't think he's _that_ evil," she replied quietly, suddenly otherwise consumed by thoughts of her own.

Since the mysterious intel had made its way into her hands, stories had been traded amongst members of the Circle that Anderson had taken a renewed interest in his former protégé, and was working quietly on an informal basis with Shepard. Though there was nothing concrete, the rumors were enough to cause Ashley to retreat to the safety of Two and her family on Amaterasu; the last thing she wanted or needed was to bump into Shepard in some Presidium hallway, especially in the absence of any reply.

* * *

"The note said they'd be docked in slip 34," Two whispered matter-of-factly, his calm tone contrasting with the gnarled, clammy hand that nervously gripped the data pad from which he read. She shifted in her seat, turning to scan the numbered posts by the motley assortment of spacecraft as their transport ship slid into dock.

30 … 31 … 32 … 33 …

Abruptly, Ashley gasped, her body shivering fiercely, as if some strange and foreign alchemy had turned her blood to ice. Two glanced up from the data pad in alarm, gently placing a small hand on her shoulder. "What is it, child?" he asked sharply, lifting and straining to follow her gaze.

Ashley turned back around, her eyes shutting firmly as she grimaced, her brows knitted together tightly.

Onetwothreefourfive.

She opened one eye halfway, praying that the scenery of her bedroom would reach her – had it all been some terrible and twisted nightmare?

It had not.

Her eyes shut tightly once more and she resumed the familiar routine, as if by reciting the numbers she could will reality away.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four-

Two's voice, laced with amusement, interrupted her belabored counting: "It appears we sold our politician friend short, Princess. He _must_ be a very evil man indeed."

* * *

Apprehension, building as she and Two approached the appointed docking slip, eased away as Ashley saw only one woman stood out front to greet them – and no Shepard. Confusion rose in its place, reflecting the apparent paradox of his reasoning: would he not see her even now, even as she was ordered to come to him? But this was not the time for some emotional and visceral reaction: there was still a mission to consider.

"Welcome abroad the Normandy, Dr. Carver," the tall, curvy brunette barked, not bothering to look up from her data pad as she heard them approach. "I'm XO Lawson, and I'll be dealing with you exclusively for the duration. I don't want my Commander needlessly disturbed."

Ashley paused, studying the other woman coolly, her arms folding across her chest. Lawson was, admittedly, highly attractive, the woman's title of XO not lost upon her. And the way she spoke of Shepard suggested more than a casual interest.

_Her_ Commander?

The fingers of envy reached deep from within her belly, slowly creeping to squeeze against her throat. Ashley suppressed the urge to scream, to question, hackles already raised. So as Shepard refused to show his face to her, so as Shepard refused to acknowledge receipt of her letter, he would be so bold as to send a replacement – _her_ replacement? – in his stead.

And the logo that rested on the woman's chest … Of all things, she was _Cerberus_. 'Traitor' did not seem such a vile affront now.

Her intuition on White Coat Number One had not steered her wrong – nearly a month after Horizon, it had been revealed that One was the source of the Circle's breach. He had accessed Ashley's personnel file and psych profile, and he had forwarded the information to Cerberus.

She did not believe in coincidence: her being spared, Shepard being on Horizon and plainly expecting to see her, she had been so certain it was all part of an orchestrated plan whose broader implications had not yet been revealed to her – and it all had been, and she had played her designated part _beautifully_. The betrayal, and the subsequent fallout from her actions, had proved more invasive than any wound that she had ever suffered.

Any remnants of initial relief, any pangs of jealousy, gave way to profound anger: as he had ignored her note, so would he ignore her now, even as she boarded his own damn ship. She clenched her jaw, hands balling into tight fists at her side. It was a strange and confusing turn to consider Shepard a coward, but he was proving to be one.

Miranda Lawson finally glanced up at the pair, aiming her cold blue eyes first at Two and then meeting Ashley's gaze. A wave of recognition spread across her face. "Chief Williams," she stated as she recovered, a hint of _something_ edging past the brusque, business-like manner of her accented speech. "Captain's Quarters, Deck One. He'd like to see _you_. He's with Garrus."

So that was it: the duty of the emissary was nothing but to serve a summons. Unable to face her in public, Shepard would send for her – like a ruler would a subject, like a father would a disobedient child, like a judge would a prisoner, like an executioner would the condemned. And Garrus, a former friend, now sat accomplice to her fate.

Over two years ago, she had hurled a book across a desk, powered by a pent-up rage she hadn't previously been aware that she possessed, and she had shattered a hapless glass; three months before, the same deep-seated angst had lashed out against a man, words of a different nature tearing through what was left of them, and creating insidious fractures in what little she had clung to. Though words could forge a bond, her note was but simple epoxy: they had too many cracks to mend in that one application.

What was the news he could not tell her here? Had he found another vessel?

Call her Shylock, for she had sinned: the pound of flesh she exacted on Horizon was to be her own!

_Dear as remembered kisses after death,  
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned  
On lips that are for others; deep as love,  
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;  
O Death in Life, the days that are no more._

But she had no want of sadness now.

"I would prefer not to," she said firmly, lips tightly pressed into a line.

"What?" Two gaped at her, green eyes widening.

Ashley turned to face him, waving a hand in Miranda's direction. "Look, if Shepard's moved on, I can deal. I've been through worse. We don't need some big discussion-"

A sharp bark of laughter interrupted her.

"Shepard? Moved on? _With me_?" Miranda gasped, offering the pair a dismissive snort. "No. Where did you get _that_ impression? He's been brooding up in his cabin since we went though the Omega-4 Relay, and I can guess the cause." She motioned towards Ashley, a slender brow raising.

Ashley scowled, unsure of whether she was being mocked. "Shepard doesn't '_brood_.'"

Miranda's brow inched higher, lightly tapping her data pad against gloved fingers. "Oh, Shepard broods now," she replied tartly, the acidity returning to her tone. "It's a small crew, and I watch it closely. I know you sent him a note – did you gain some great catharsis from it? Shepard got to embark on a suicide mission knowing – what was it? – '_I can't lose you a second time_.' There was no catharsis for _him _in that."

Horizon had been outlined as their final chapter, but Cerberus had not believed that she'd draft an epilogue. It had not been about her: Cerberus had clumsily crafted a scenario to secure Shepard's peace, and she had managed the opposite. She knew the scope of Shepard's mission, the risks inherent, when she'd sent him the note. In her darkest moments, she had begged for one last chance to see him, one last chance to express all that had been left unsaid, and when given the opportunity, she had squandered it. She couldn't let it rest at that. Still, the novel had been allowed to close without protest; was her message the prologue of a sequel, or one final dagger, desperate and selfish?

Oh, _hell_.

Ashley recoiled abruptly. Miranda's barbs stung, though not nearly so much as the sentiment behind them: as deeply as Shepard's silence had afflicted her, so had her attempt cut through him. There was nothing that could be said when facing the threat of another death, and by then so much time had passed without reply…

Sending her the intel _was_ his grand gesture – the appreciation of her work, the pride in and recognition of that which she championed. Shepard had yet no partner to help him find his voice and give him balance; that was a role that _she_ had always played.

Seeing Ashley's reaction, Miranda turned away, staring out at the skyline of Illium as she regained composure. "We didn't know it was _you _escorting the doctor – don't read into his absence," she sighed, motioning idly towards the airlock. "It's the same layout as the old Normandy. Elevators are at the back of the CIC. Doctor, you should stay here with me – at least until the fireworks are through."

Whatever the crew thought of the ashen woman, slowly stalking towards the back of the CIC, they blessedly said nothing.

There would be no fireworks this time.

She had seen enough of destruction for one lifetime. She was not passive now, no longer rendered inert by circumstance outside of her control. There was only strength, only decision, only one purpose.

Each event of her life, no matter how tragic or confusing at the time, was another part of her story. There was always sense to soothe the inner turmoil: she had faith that the phrases of her life were perfectly planned by an author – breathing form to her works through broader plan and design. There was a reason yet for this chapter currently being penned, and for the epilogue she had sent months before.

She took a deep breath and stepped into the elevator, timidly pressing the button to the top deck with trembling fingers. Shepard had been resurrected, his flesh reconstructed – but he was just a man.

Ashley watched the doors of the elevator shut in silence, forcing away unwilling tears welling in the corners of her eyes. It had been years since she watched the life slowly ebb from his body, and she could never release him – and he stood now less than a deck away.

_O, never say that I was false of heart,  
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.  
As easy might I from myself depart  
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:  
That is my home of love: if I have ranged,  
Like him that travels I return again,  
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,  
So that myself bring water for my stain._

The doors opened abruptly.

The days that they had shared, the lives that they had lived, the people that they had been were no more. But from the ashes of the old could still rise something new – and there was hope.

Ashley swallowed, steeling herself mentally against the task ahead: it was now time to pick up the pieces once again.

Quietly, she crept to the solitary door on the deck, pressing her ear against the cool metal – there were barely audible elevated voices, and the air sung and rippled with agitation from biotic fields present in it. Jagged shards of conversation drifted to her:

"-not any better than the last … really? ... no reply-" Tinny tones, mildly amused, touched with tinges of metal. Garrus.

"-don't know! … too much time … is worth it all-" Ashley didn't need to see who that voice belonged to; her body's tell-tale reaction was enough to identify it, a wave of shivers cascading from her crown down her spine.

Her fingers walked across the metal, her breath shaky, as she pressed the button for the door chime and braced against the wall, as if she were seeking cover in a fire-fight. It seemed a silly motion as the door to his quarters hissed open, though it also had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time.

For the second time that day, the figure that greeted her was not the one that she had expected. Spotting her pressed there in makeshift cover, small dark eyes widened, mandibles clattering in surprise.

Garrus glanced back over his shoulder, still mulling through what to make of this unexpected development. He quietly reached a talon to Ashley's lips, pressing lightly in the universal sign for 'silence'. "Just a message from the CIC – our operatives are on-board," he said hurriedly, shifting position to shove her forward and exchange places.

A light, stannic whisper met her ear: "Good luck." The door swooshed shut behind him, a distant hiss sounding from the hallway as the doors to the elevator opened. He was gone.

And they were alone, though Shepard didn't know it yet.

Her eyes drunk in the scenery: civilian life apparently had some perks. Used to the spartan comforts of a military vessel, the wasted space and opulence of the Captain's Quarters was jarring – he had two desks, a large fish tank, a collection of model ships, and no fewer than two separate seating areas. But Shepard would not be appeased for long.

His voice sliced through her idle observations, the air around him crackling and humming with the dark blue aura of his biotics as he sat, stooped, across from a terminal: "Great. Now, are you going to read this or not?"

There he was: a survivor of Mindoir, a Vanguard, a marine, the Captain of the Normandy, the first human Spectre, the savior of the Citadel, the hero of Elysium, the defeater of the Collectors, risen from the dead – and rightfully a god amongst mere mortal men. His life was the quintessence of myth: already Herculean tasks had been elevated to the things of legend after his death – and neither could death contain him.

It had been deceptively easy for her to imagine _the_ Commander Shepard not being affected by anything of the corporeal realm. But observing him there, she was acutely aware of the dishonesty of lore – this Shepard was fallible, mortal, and very human.

His elbows were propped on the desk before him, head firmly resting in his hands. He had sounded tired, worn, exasperated. He no longer glowed from within through fissures in his skin; the only light touching his form now was the blue tint of his biotics, an unconscious manifestation of his frustration that cast a surreal and ghostly light upon his body. But it was no ghost: it was the Shepard that she had long tried to remember, that she had only viewed briefly in days that were no more – it was Shepard, the man.

_Never believe, though in my nature reign'd  
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,  
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,  
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;  
For nothing this wide universe I call,  
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all._

She planted timid, light steps towards where the he sat, moving to stand slightly behind him on his left. Shepard did not turn as she approached, his years of training and combat experience alone necessary to inform him that someone stood near.

"Thoughts?" It was an order couched as a question. His finger jutted forward towards the blinking cursor on the terminal in front of him.

She stooped, bending slightly over his shoulder in order to read the indicated solitary line of text: "Ash – I'm sorry. I couldn't give you hope, tell you everything, and then die on you again. I need you to understand."

Shepard was trying to pick up pieces of his own.

Her throat was her compressed by a wall of emotion as the memories of Shepard's death, buried away so long ago, unwillingly invaded her mind once more, recalling a depth of emptiness that she long compelled herself to ignore. And she understood.

It was his apology, his long-awaited and oft-begrudged reply. Still not composed, still struggling with things incapable of true expression, of a deluge of feeling long acknowledged as ineffable.

She wanted to speak, to acknowledge the words, to acknowledge her presence standing behind him – but something else overcame her. Her hands wrapped around the back of his chair and found his waist. She lowered her head fully to rest in the familiar nook where shoulder met neck, inhaling sharply: sandalwood, the smells of combat, the stale, cloying sweetness of his sweat tinged with the acridity of smoke. Ashley bit back a laugh as felt Shepard tense and then lean his head against hers, his nose buried in her hair, shoulders heaving with the same motion. She wondered what smells of hers he was happily inhaling.

"You smell like soap, sweat, and smoke," she whispered, pulling away to stand once more.

"You smell mildly fruity, a little like flowers, and like guns and … gun cleaner," he replied quietly, his voice quivering. The colored air surrounding him faded as he braced a single hand against his desk, slowly levering his weight against it to stand.

She waited in silence as he collected his thoughts. He looked surprised, something she knew Shepard did not feel often.

After long minutes his head turned to his right, staring at something on his desk. She followed his gaze, past the volumes of books, past the medals of a much-honored career, past the Star of Terra, a single brow inclining as she found the object of his stare: an old picture, taken without warning, a determined expression etched across her face.

Whatever was left of the anxiety pooling within her evaporated in that moment.

"Pretty girl."

He drew a deep breath, a strange laugh resonating in his chest as he turned to finally face her. "Soldier, used to be part of my crew. She ..." He swallowed, eyes returning to the photograph. "She reminds me of what I fight for. She ... gives me hope."

Ashley licked dry lips, willing away a sudden lump forming in her throat. "She's … All these days and nights, you've been with her. You've been what _she_ fights for." Her voice was gruff as she added, barely audible, "You've _always _made her feel good enough."

She lowered her head to stare at the two pairs of feet so close together and still so far apart. The air was thick, the intensity of the moment burning through her like a white-hot flame. But with so much still allowed unfelt, so much still allowed unsaid …

"_Still_? After _everything_?" she gasped, her brow knitting tightly.

The silence that followed spoke volumes in reply. Just as the woman became empty, preparing to shatter once more, Shepard cleared his throat and began:

"'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.  
Push off, and sitting well in order smite  
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds  
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths  
Of all the western stars, until I die."

It was Ulysses; it was her father's long before it became hers, and hers long before it became theirs. The passage that she had recited to steel herself against the news of Shepard's inferred life was the very passage that he recited now, to breathe life anew to something long condemned – as broken, unsuitable, dead – to reinforce things that could not otherwise be expressed. And it was all she needed to know.

Cool fingers gently tucked under her chin, a calloused thumb lightly tracing the soft outline of her jaw.

An unspoken shared bond ran through them, and there were no words of hers fitting for the moment. She could only whisper in silver reply:

"Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though  
We are not now that strength which in old days  
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;  
One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

He applied gentle pressure to her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. They held the stare for long minutes, and suddenly, wordlessly, he closed his eyes and leaned forward, moving to rest his forehead against hers as strong arms snaked about her shoulders.

"Ash, I-"

"I know," she interrupted quietly. "Skipper, I-"

"I know too," he said softly in an interruption of his own.

He shifted, and carefully, almost timidly, pressed his lips to hers.

_History, despite its wrenching pain,  
Cannot be unlived, and if faced  
With courage, need not be lived again._

_Lift up your eyes upon  
The day breaking for you.  
Give birth again  
To the dream._

_

* * *

__Epilogue_

Ashley pulled Two into a tight embrace, squeezing his shoulders as fiercely as her muscles would allow her.

"Easy, child!" he laughed, returning the hug with equal vigor. "You know you aren't rid of me yet. I'll write you daily with unsolicited advice."

"And I'll delete every piece of it without opening," she replied with mock-seriousness, furiously blinking away the tears that had begun to gather.

Two gave her one last squeeze before letting go.

She stared out at the illuminated skyline of Illium, allowing herself a smile. Theirs had been the mission both she and Shepard needed, though both refused to embark upon it of their own accord: a mission of reconciliation. And reconcile they did. Ashley's formal request for posting aboard the Normandy had been submitted to Hackett, and Shepard's formal invitation to join the Circle of Friends had followed shortly thereafter.

In her distraction, she almost missed Two's movement past her. Turning, she saw Two quickly sidle up to Shepard, jabbing the far larger man in the chest with a small, gnarled finger. "You may have a trusty steed, you may be wearing shining armor, but so help me-! If you don't take good care of my Princess, I will smite you!"

Shepard laughed, clapping the old man lightly on the shoulder, his eyes shining in admiration. "You and I both know your Princess doesn't need anyone to take care of her," he replied evenly, a large grin spreading across his lips. "I only agreed to let her stay aboard the Normandy so that _she_ could take care of _me_."

After three days spent in orbit around Illium, the ashes had settled, and darkness had subsided to day. Two would be left without this partner, but she had never truly been his at all – and the old man was happy to know it.

A hand, large and calloused, quietly slipped through hers.

They were a blank page, a cover opened – a sequel in its infancy, waiting to be penned.

* * *

Works referenced:

Marlowe, Dr. Faustus, the Helen of Troy soliloquy (though thoroughly butchered)  
Tennyson, Tears Idle Tears  
Shakespeare, Sonnet 109 (first half)  
Shakespeare, Sonnet 109 (second half)  
Tennyson, Ulysses  
Angelou, On the Pulse of Morning


End file.
